His Picture
by Dragongirl16
Summary: A short ficlet. Rather sad. Character death! HD


A/N: This is what happens when I stay up too late and listen to the Crow soundtrack for hours on end. It's sad. I'm sorry. 

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own them, but I sure wish I did.

His Picture 

Draco Malfoy was a legend in his own time. A decorated war-hero, a proud, unbending Slytherin supporter, a wealthy, arrogant aristocrat – but in the end, he was an old man, like all the rest.

His children were grown and gone, his wife long departed for parts best unknown. Portraits dotted the silent halls of the cold Malfoy Manor, the only sound in them now the slow shuffling of weary feet, and the quick patter of house elves, too stubborn to leave their master.

But Draco Malfoy held a secret – a secret he had guarded for almost a century. It was located in the east wing of the Manor, in a room the children had been forbidden to enter, and his wife afraid to go. It was a room the Malfoy patriarch had not visited in an age, the heavy dust laying thick on the shelves and the chairs, the musty smell tickling his nose.

He gripped his cane tightly, the only thing of his father's he had left. His hair was no longer the white gold strands of his youth, nor were his eyes the clear stormy gray color that had captivated witches and wizards alike.

His skin was papery and spotted, the sins of his youth mapped out for all to see. His hair was thin and dull, the once shining mane now silver, dulled by time and sorrow. His heart beat heavily in his chest and his breath came in short gasps. It was almost time.

He peered out the window for a moment, the golden sunlight refracted by the thin coating of dust on the panes of glass. It was a room, but it was _their_ room, full of sun and air.

With a sigh Draco turned and looked towards the fireplace, his faded eyes skipping past the bed – those memories were too hard to face. The ashes of a long ago fire were still there, and lying by the hearth was a book, the pages bent open and marked with a faded green ribbon.

Draco closed his eyes tightly, turning his head away for a moment, a sharp pain searing his chest. He swayed.

"Hey you." Hands slipped around his waist, steadying him. "I was wondering when you'd come."

The faded eyes closed as his body sagged, slipping to the ground slowly, as though being lowered by loving hands. "I'm sorry I'm so late."  
"You're not late. Isn't it you who said Slytherins were never late? Just that us mortal, common folk were too early?"

"You were never common." His breath rattled in his chest and his cane fell to the side, forgotten.

"Of course I'm not common, I'm Harry." Green eyes peered down at him, the narrow face full of joy and laughter.

Clear gray eyes narrowed as they looked up at him. "Cute, Potter."

"Why thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Must be why you like me." Gentle hands caressed his face, wiping away the tears.

"I love you. I always did."

"Shh." Green eyes turned sorrowful for a moment. "I know. That's why I waited." Gentle lips met and held, a lifetime of sorrow and joy passing away. "I'm glad you didn't give up."

"I…couldn't. The Malfoy line…"

"Had to continue, blah blah blah."

"Don't get cheeky with me, you little…"

"Shh." Hands clasped and a youthful Harry Potter pulled a fresh-faced Draco Malfoy up from the ground, a flush spreading over the fine, pale cheeks. "It's time to go."

"I know." Eyes met as hands entwined. Draco reached out and brushed their fingers down the other boy's cheek. "I have missed you so."

"I know."

**qpqpqpqp**

Draco Malfoy was a legend in his own time – but the manner of his death ensured that he would continue to be a legend long after.

His body was found in a room that had for the longest time in all Malfoy children's memories been locked. The house elves had been too frightened to enter, and in the end had called upon the Malfoy scions to come and check for themselves.

The death, they ruled, was due to heart failure. The room, however, was another matter.

Large, airy windows dominated the room, taking up almost one entire wall. A huge, four-poster bed took up the entire left side of the room, the green and gold sheets were ruffled and tossed about, as though the owner of the room had only risen from it moments before. But what spread across the wizarding world like wildfire was the portrait above the fireplace.

The death of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was a fairy tale for children in the golden age that arrived after the death of the Dark Lord Voldemort. His tale of bravery, courage, and finally sacrifice, was one that school children all around the magical world read about. But the particular details – such as where the hero had been the night of the Dark Lord's death, and what had prompted the boy hero to look out the Dark Lord in the midst of his own army, no one had ever know.

But now – they knew.

Above the cold mantle, looking down over the occupants of the room, was Harry Potter in all his glory; a seventeen year old boy, with eyes too weary for a face so young. And at his side stood a young Draco Malfoy, his accustomed smug grin absent as he stared at something no one could see. The figures did not move, did not speak, did not breathe. Their silent lips spilled no secrets, no answers – the inscription on the bottom was the only thing left for the viewers to read.

_In living here, each breath, each beat_

_ This living heart beats twice, touched;_

_ But darkness lingers even as I breathe_

_ And in darkness meet, does darkness leave._

Scrolls and parchments were later found in the drawers of the desk to confirm the theory. As long as Harry Potter lived, so did Lord Voldemort – and in living the Dark Lord succeeding in killing, wiping out the hope of wizarding world. So in darkness the boy-hero left; in darkness he met his rival, and in darkness they died. And no one had known the life the hero had left behind, save one.

The book by the hearth, laid open for the curious to ponder and poke at, was of little interest to many. Save for the scholarly few in centuries to come, the title of the book and poem that was marked was forgotten, its memory paling far in comparison to the scandal and romance of the two boys who had shared it.

His Picture

By John Donne

HERE take my picture ; though I bid farewell,  
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.  
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more,  
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.  
When weatherbeaten I come back ; my hand  
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun-beams tann'd,  
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head  
With care's harsh sudden hoariness o'erspread,  
My body a sack of bones, broken within,  
And powder's blue stains scatter'd on my skin ;  
If rival fools tax thee to have loved a man,  
So foul and coarse, as, O ! I may seem then,  
This shall say what I was ; and thou shalt say,  
" Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?  
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he  
Should now love less, what he did love to see?  
That which in him was fair and delicate,  
Was but the milk, which in love's childish state  
Did nurse it ; who now is grown strong enough  
To feed on that, which to weak tastes seems tough.

The End.


End file.
